


Shield Maiden

by JaidenAye



Category: Supernatural, Vikings (TV)
Genre: But doesn't follow the main Winchester plot, Deviates From Canon, Gen, I feel like I write really pretentiously and I'm so sorry, I'm trying, Picks up during SPN S4, Shieldmaidens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2018-11-28 12:03:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11417583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaidenAye/pseuds/JaidenAye
Summary: With the Apocalypse rising by the hands of demons and angels, the old gods look for power as they used to wield. As one of Odin's fiercest and most devoted warriors, Lagertha leaves Valhalla to walk the Earth once more.And like she did before, Lagertha shows women how to raise their shields and swords against those who would hurt them, supernatural or otherwise.Inspired partially by my lingering disappointment in Hammer of the Gods and most certainly by everyone's disappointment at how many women are always dying all the time.





	1. Rebirth

_ We all remember the age in which we thrived, the days when we didn’t have to feed on the flesh of man in order to feed, in order to survive. The fanatic, the desperate, the devoted children of man lived and died with our names in their hearts. The belief of mortals fueled your will. Your whim split the earth and shook seas. _

_ Your power could have razed all these angels in flight and splintered these demons of the deep without pause. _

_ What we have become now, we gods without followers. _

 

* * *

 

She was born to the world like any other child- small, bare, and crying. And she grew as all other children, slow and far too quickly, all at once. Normal and average as any child could be.

And yet, there were times she felt a weight on her shoulders, an extension of her arm in metal, rather than bone and flesh.

Her dreams were tender some nights, with the smell of snow and smoke. The feeling of a man or a babe within the circle of her arms.

Then the nights where they were bloody and screaming motion. She would wake with her shoulders aching, heart fluttering like she was flying.

Mortal though she was, in another age Lagertha spirit had ruled over land, men, and battlefields alike. Her sword and furiosity unmatched, even by the band of shieldmaidens who followed her through death itself. 

She was born to a age of men, to a new name, and a new family. Within her soul, though, she was still Viking, she was still Lagertha, and she would always be a leader of men. The strength and wisdom of Odin was woven into her bones. 

And one day, she would remember what she had been. 

Lagertha was reborn in the winter of 1987. Just under her collarbone, a birthmark like a raven in flight. 


	2. Bridge

The sky is on fire, a mess of reds cutting away at the dark shroud of night. Dark birds wheel above, unnoticed by the violence below.

Lagertha swung to a stop as she finished her latest challenger, lungs working overtime as she overlooks the sloping battlefield, littered already with corpses. The grassy hill red and silver with fallen fighters, swords scattered across the ground. 

Her muscles begin to ache and scream as soon as they stop moving, the shield on her arm a lead weight. The hour is early and she was no more immune to the years than her mother or her mother’s mother before her. Hot blood was running into her left eye from where her shield bit into her brow while blocking a heavy blow. The shieldmaiden’s heart beat double time and she could feel her pulse in her head, like a battledrum driving her onward. Her hands shook, knuckles pale. 

She could feel Odin’s piercing eye on her. 

Their enemy had stolen into the camp with the first stirrings of the sun, determined to catch the Viking forces unprepared. The hour and the field could be better, but her warriors had sprung awake with fury to outpace all the stealth that their opponents had tried to muster. 

Her shining son controlled the field below her, shouting orders to his fighters. Bjorn was an unstoppable force, clearing his enemies from his path using terrifying strength and all the skill she had woven into him. His axe moves and men shatter in its’ wake.

Lagertha aches with pride, a bone deep emotion that nearly bursts from her heart. She wants to bare her teeth and scream that that is her  _ son _ . 

She forces her body to move once more into the fray, pulling her arm to block a sword coming for her side. This was a dance Lagertha had been practicing since her father had first folded steel into her hand and told her what it meant to be strong, to fight and to ride into the halls of the gods with pride and blood on her blade. This is who she was. She fell back into the familiar steps, feeling her opponent’s pace and pushing herself until her sword, her arm, her weapon opened his belly. Moving on, she kept her shield ready and set her eye on her next opponent. 

There was weight that every Viking carried into the frey, the burning need for recognition, fame, or riches. The drive in the warriors flying across the field to their opponents, eager to get at their throats, wallets. From youngest to eldest in the battle, each Viking fought for themselves, for their families, and for the honor that would raise them to feast with the gods. 

Lagertha went through battle with her people on her shoulders, she swung her sword for her earldom, her shield came forward for all the women she had folded steel into, and each man she split was chance for her family to move forward, to be free. 

A man stalks towards her, tall and broad enough to block the rising sun behind him. As they fought, his shoulders are stark black against the red sky and she can not see his hands. Each time he moves, the light of the dawn flashes around him, blinding her. 

Lagertha keeps him at bay with quick arcs of her sword, but her shield is slowing, barely blocking his jarring blows. Her arm tingles all the way to her shoulder with a threatening numbness climbing from her wrist. 

She dances to the left, to the right, trying to circle downhill and move the sun to her back. His reach and longer weapon work against her, matching her steps and herding her backwards, beating at her defenses. 

A slash moves through her blind spot and past the solid weight of her shield, opening a shallow wound above her hip. Lagertha staggers at the white pain lacing down her leg. She lashes back out at him with a clumsy swing he turns with his own blade before stepping forward, forcing her further backward until her heel strikes a stone. 

She tumbles down, her hip hitting grass and dirt. Her vision, already half blurred and bloody, is now just a blur of grass and her own flying hair. The battered shield falls from her arm, she cannot feel it. 

He grunts, moving for her prone form and she rolls. 

Her weight pulls her downhill for a turn, ending on her stomach. Struggling to get upright, all she can see is bloody blonde hair with black specks eating at the corners of her eyes. Her hip is flaming hot. Her body wanted curl into that pain, but a hand tangles into her hair and wrenches her up, her head pulled back and to the left. 

His weight shifts as he went to swing at her neck and she can feel where steel would part her skin, the knowledge hitting her like a curse, like a premonition. 

Where is her sword? Is it in her hand? 

No. 

But the dagger on her hip is still there and she pulls it out desperately as she throws her head back with all the force she can summon. It wasn’t a clean hit, but it sends him rocking back. It gives her time. 

Lagertha twists toward the hand still holding her hair, straining to see through the red in her eye. Her dagger eats into the soft flesh behind his knee and when she pulls it out he collapses. HIs hand tries to keep a hold in her hair, putting her off balance, but she pushes up and buries the metal into his eye. 

He falls limp against the hill, another body staring at the sky.

Battle energy was flooding her veins. She was like a  _ berserkr, _ wild and terrible like she could eat coals, like arrows would glance off of her skin.

She wanted grab a man’s head and see if she could rip it from his shoulders.

The ravens circled overhead, dozens of eyes upon her.

 

* * *

 

Marcella woke, body tense and her heart racing. The teenager rolled to the side, sitting on the edge of her bed. It wasn’t a nightmare, but she still felt like she was gasping for breath.

Outside the window, it was still near pitch black and against all logic, she was wide awake. Her mind was sharp and ready, her body buzzing with sudden energy. There was school in the morning and her head ached with the phantom throb of the head ache she would have tomorrow from another sleepless night. She ran her trembling hands down her face, then back through her hair. 

The girl turned to grab a hair tie from the small table. The alarm clock sitting on the nightstand showed 4:35 AM in stark red against the dark and she reeled, the colors slipping from her dream to her waking life. 

Red sky, black shadows, red blade, black bruises, red in her eye. 

Birds, dark dark  _ dark  _ above her. 

Marcella closed her eyes as the dream slipped back into her subconscious. It was early, but she had a literature paper that she had been putting off. She might as well get ready now and get a jump on her workload early, so she could take a nap in her free period. 

The dream lay just on the edge of her brain, like she might remember what had happened at any moment. But there was nothing to be gained from thinking of dreams, so she got up and began her day.  

 

* * *

 

A thick tension blanketed the farm as surely as the clouds laying fresh snow. The lighting in the house was dim and Lagertha was exhausted. The fire kept the house warm and sent long shadows dancing along the walls. 

Her little family gathered closed to the light, each watching the youngest child. Gyda, her sweet soft daughter with a fierce name to grow into. Gyda, whose skin burned hot as the embers in the hearth. Gyda who slept deeply and feverishly, the toddler sweating through the winter night. 

Lagertha stands vigil over her child, wiping the damp from her daughters brow and sending prayers to any gods listening in the silence of the winter snow fall. 

Bjorn sits next to her on the bed, frowning, “Mother, when will she wake up?” His weight is a warm line along her side as he looks at his sister. 

She turns toward him and brushed his hair back from his face. “We have to give her her time. This is Gyda’s battle and we cannot rush it.”

“When will she be better?”

“Only the gods can know what lies in store, Bjorn.” 

He stills again, eyes still on his sister.

When he speaks again, his voice is very soft and she almost can’t hear it over the crackling of the fire. “She’s too small, mother.” He is somber and she can feel the edge of his thoughts. Bjorn is young, but her son has seen raiding parties leave in the spring and then return without some of his neighbors, he knows that death is on the edge of every life. 

“Your mother is smaller than many of the men in the village, but she can knock them all to the ground. The size of the fighter doesn’t determine how well they can battle, my son.” Ragnar fixes his son with that intense energy he has. “Gyda will wake and then she will grow and soon she will be beating you blue down through the field.” Bjorn makes a vague squawking sound, once again a child with child’s worries. Ragnar continues, “I guess I could be persuaded to spar with someone, but they would have to be very convincing.”

Her son falls over himself, pleading his father to fight with him. It is later than they would normally practice, but perhaps Bjorn will wrestle with his father until he falls asleep. At least one of them should sleep tonight. 

Lagertha watches her boys tumble in the corner as she pulls her daughter into her arms, a sweet behind her lips. 

“Fight for me, Gyda. Fight for your family.”

 

* * *

 

She turned in her bed, raising the thick comforter over her head and closed her eyes against her tears. Marcella could see her face and she could remember her name, her daughter’s name. 

Sweet, gentle Gyda, who survived one sickness and fell to another. Her fiercely named child who never grew to know what it was to be fearsome. 

Marcella desperately wanted to go back to sleep and forget the sinking feeling that sat on her chest, stopping her breath. The dream that was not a dream would not let her go and as she cried for a daughter that she had not birthed

_ as she cried for her firstborn daughter who she held as a babe, as a child, as a corpse _

she could remember more and more of this girl who haunted her dreams

_ her tender Gyda who had followed her so attentively _

she could hear her laugh and the frustration in her voice as she complained about her brother, a boy she could almost see the face of

_ she smiled like the sun peeking through the winter storm clouds _

and it was too much, where was she supposed to put all of this emotion and memory 

_ her eyes ached with tears, her bones ached with age and she lay her Gyda onto the pyre  _

and all of this foreign feeling that felt too familiar

She felt like she was losing her mind.  All she could do was cry for what that girl could have been, that she had forgotten her and that she had remembered her again. 

Marcella said, “Gyda,” into the darkness of her room. 

It was a whisper against her cotton sheets. “Gyda.”

“Gyda.”

And that name, it was her gift, wasn’t it? She had given it, once before. She had a daughter, once before. 

It didn’t make any sense, and it felt right. She didn’t know how, but it was. 

She was sixteen, then she was more. Growing and grown. 

“My Gyda.”

The weight of the word on her tongue was sweet. For now, all that mattered is that there was a truth to the dreams. She was more than what she was before or she had been more than she realized. 

Only the gods knew what was to come, she would mourn her daughter for tonight. 

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for posting this before I have it completely mapped out, but my fingers were itching to get it out there. 
> 
> I don't know how far this will go, but I just had the idea of a Lagertha/Claire mentorship a while ago and this has been clunking around my brain ever since.


End file.
